It was a few hours later back at the hostel, when the
fleeting thoughts of the possible alterations, say cutting the Mezcal with
gasoline, could have happened to the
product before it was ultimately placed into our possession, sealed with a
plastic top in a reused Bacardi rum bottle, began to fill my head. The
ramifications for consuming improperly produced or impure alcohol can be quite
severe. But after a few sips I didn’t feel like I was going to die immediately,
and decided that was a least a positive sign. Whether it had or had not, the
stuff at least tasted like it had
been cut with gasoline, but at $5 for a liter of alcohol it was worth the
adventure of stopping at a roadside Mezcaleria and picking up something to bring
back with us. Worth it as long as we didn’t lose our eyesight or worse that is…
Austin, Phil and I were returning from a day trip at Hierve
El Agua (the water boils), a local mineral spring that perhaps was a tad
overrated, located about one hour from central Oaxaca when we pulled our rental
car into the small dirt clearing along
the two lane highway. In retrospect, our decision to choose the smallest, most
local looking Mezcaleria along the drive was itself probably the reason for the
burning sensation that torched our lips with every swig of Mezcal. But the
photo ops: our Mexican salesman/distiller in front of his tiny roadside
operation, the still slowing firing along in the background, could not have
been beaten by any of the larger more commercial operations further along the
road.
Oaxaca, the similarly named city and state, is home to
Mezcal, the often maligned and misunderstood relative of tequila. It’s a
relationship that is slightly different than most people come to understand; Tequila
requires production using blue agave from a distiller located in the state of
Jalisco, while mezcal can be made using any agave in any state. Thusly, all
Tequila is mezcal, but not all mezcal is Tequila.
The semi-hot and relative dry climate of Oaxaca in southern
Mexico makes it an ideal location for growing the agave Americana, or Maguey,
the relative of the blue agave of tequila fame that is used in mezcal
production. These differences, the type of agave used, the fact that the pinas
are pit roasted instead of oven roasted, give mezcal its unique flavors. In the
United States tequila enjoys a reputation as a spirit that is consumed for the
sole purpose of getting drunk and making bad decisions, and mezcal a reputation
of whatever it is that is below tequila. Here in Oaxaca I was going to find out
why that really isn’t the case at all.
The state of Oaxaca lies in the far south of Mexico,
stretching along the Pacific coast of the tail of Mexico between Guerrero and
Chiapas as it swings to the east before butting up against Guatemala. The
interior of the state features a mountainous terrain that has been home to
hundreds of thousands of indigenous peoples since long before the arrival of
Cortez over 500 years ago. As you move past the mountains and valleys, the rugged
landscape eventually yields to the expanse of the Pacific ocean, giving Oaxaca
a large stretch of coastal beaches, lagoons and cliffs much less accessible
than many of Mexico’s more famous
beaches and resorts.
Puerto Escondido (“hidden port”) epitomizes this remoteness,
and was the initial destination upon our arrival into Mexico, three high school
friends out to reunite once again on the travel circuit for a much needed “spring
break” from the professional world. But getting there is no joke, and over 5
hours of driving later we finally descended out of the mountains once and for
all and into the beach town of Puerto, as it’s often known by locals and
travelers alike.
The drive had been a quick introduction into what the state
of Oaxaca truly is and how many of its peoples live their day to day lives.
Only two weeks prior I had been in Tijuana for work, commuting from San Diego
each day across the border to a modern industrial park. The facilities there
were almost as nice and modern as any in the States, and except for a larger
degree of labor intensive tasks (assembly lines reflecting the cheaper wages),
overall the atmosphere was not unlike a developed, American factory.
But here in Oaxaca we were, literally and figuratively, a
1000 miles away from Tijuana. Not long
after we had exited the city of Oaxaca, Highway 131 returned to a simple two
lane road and began a gradual, meandering ascent into the surrounding
mountains. As we rode along in the late afternoon sun, the world outside the
car window returned to a life of simple agriculture, subsistence based
economies, and modest roadside villages.
Though the villages
along the roadside were poor, the people, as in all of Oaxca, were friendly and
happy, giving us looks of either smiles or bewilderment as we drove past. In a
way it seemed a quiet, gentle life…except for the god damn “topes”. The speed
bumps, or topes as they are known by the warning signs, seemed to represent the olden, traditional
ways of these villages more than their refusal to let anyone drive more than 5
mph through them: a way where a village was to be cared for and thought of,
rather than driven through. The ends to which they accomplished such a feat was
to build speedbumps of such staggering heights that the only way to proceed over them without
completely destroying the vehicle was to inch over at the slowest of possible
speeds while waiting for the inevitable scrap of the underbelly bottoming out
against the top of the bump. And after completing your harrowing expedition you
proceeded to the next one, only 50 feet down the road, and continued to do so
until you had made your way through the village.
When we weren’t inching our way over speedbumps, we did the
best we could to make time along the winding switchbacks through the mountains,
accelerating through the turns while maintaining a vigilant eye for obstacles
such as stray dogs, pedestrians, donkeys, even soldiers in camouflage and
avoiding looking directly into the oncoming lights of the trucks and buses that
were too lazy to turn their brights off for every passing car.
In the end what had started as a supposed 3.5 hour drive had
taken nearly 6 hours of switchbacking, speedbump navigating, obstacle avoiding,
and a little good old fashioned getting lost. Needless to say we were thrilled
to finally arrive in Puerto Escondido that Sunday night following a drive that
after which even the Virgin of Guadelupe would have needed a cigarette.
Puerto Escondido is known for surfing; its main beach,
Zicatela, has a reputation for producing some of the best waves in Mexico, and
subsequently some of the best rip tides and undertows to go with. Hard to get
to and with an often treacherous surf, there’s little wonder why it has never
blossomed into a full scale resort destination, at least not for gringos that
is. Which was perfect, as that was the intended purpose of our visit: escape
the gringo trail of Mexico and venture off to Oaxaca, “where the Mexicans go to
vacation”, as we had been told.
It seemed like a noble idea, except for the fact that we had
made one slight miscalculation; Semana Santa was next week. We were one week
too early and instead found ourselves in a vacation city the week before the
party began. Instead of beaches full of Mexican families and bars full of
Mexican girls, we found handfuls of tourists here and there and bars full of
dreadlocked gringos and burn outs.
I have never
considered myself much of a “relaxing vacation” type of person, and the three
days we were planning on staying in Puerto had seemed like more than enough at
first glance. But just our first day alone began to ease my impatience, perhaps
something that the “maturation” of growing up and finding a job with only a few
precious weeks of vacation had induced. For the first time in my life, I was ok
with moving at a relaxed pace while traveling. Perhaps I was growing older, or
perhaps Oaxaca had mellowed me out.
Most of the others staying in our hostel appeared to be
similarly afflicted. Mornings in Puerto never started early, and it was close
to noon before we found ourselves heading down the road to a café for some food
and morning coffee. It was the type of lifestyle where your salutations of
“Buenos Dias” were answered with a “Buenas tardes” and a smile. It was the type
of lifestyle where you made no rush to finish your late breakfast, amazing
chilaquiles and a couple cups of coffee in this case, and eventually found your
way to the beach sometime in the mid afternoon. It was the type of lifestyle
that emphasized doing nothing over doing something. It was the type of life
style I never imagined myself enjoying.
I suppose we eventually grow old, we mature, and we learn to
drink cheap Mexican beer on a beach and enjoy it. We had spent the first day
hanging around Carazalillo, the most picturesque of all the local beaches, a
small, sand crescent tucked away behind stone cliff walls topped with condos
and oceanfront getaways. Beyond that the other beaches seemed nothing out of
the ordinary. Zicatela had its immense size, a long straight stretch of
off-white sand and crashing waves, the backside of the beach lined with dozens
of open air restaurants. The tourist to restaurant ratio was at best maybe 3:1,
so needless to say we had our choice of prime seats whenever we wanted.
There was some
reality in the commonality and simplicity of the atmosphere around us, same as
how Puerto Escondido wasn’t a particularly beautiful or noteworthy town, save
for the fact that it was located next to the beach. But still we enjoyed it,
and those we met seemed inexplicably drawn to stay longer, perhaps by nothing
more than the love of being somewhere with no expectations. A couple of the Brits in our hostel were
preparing to depart for Cancun after Puerto in order to get a taste of the
American Spring Break. We gave them a blessing and wished them well on their
way.
And with that, only a few days later we were packing the car
and preparing for our return trip to Oaxaca the city for the final leg of our
journey. I enjoyed Puerto for everything that it was and wasn’t. We had done
little more than eat food, drink beers, and hang out on the beach with random
group of Brits and Irish but it had been a good trip nonetheless. It wasn’t
your typical Mexican beach resort, but that was sort of the point, and it
seemed well taken by everyone involved as far as I could tell.
By Wednesday evening we had arrived back in Oaxaca to our
hostel, the return journey having been far less stressful than the beginning
now that we had familiarized ourselves with the road, style of driving, and
once again the god damn topes.
Oaxaca is everything that Puerto Escondido is not. It’s an
impossibly charming city of a quarter million residents scattered through the
central valley. Rich in colonial architecture with narrow, cobblestone streets
that cross the city and divide it up into minute quadrants, it is a city that
is easy to explore, and with each passing block or park I began to enjoy it
more and more.
At the center of town, as in almost all Mexican cities, is
the Zocalo, the central park, situated alongside the central cathedral. These
two form the basis for the center of the city, the community and everything
else, and as we approached that first night I was awestruck by the sheer number
of people that inhabited this public space at the time. From the peripheral
cafes, couples and families sat watching the multitudes of people circle around
through the entertainers, vendors, hawkers and the like, all filling the
evening air with a sense of life and vitality that simply doesn’t exist in
public spaces in the United States.
We stepped away from the Zocalo down a side street for some
dinner from a recommended street vendor selling, tlayudas, a local dish of a
thin grilled tortilla topped with a spread of refried beans and then scattered
above that a variety of ingredients such as chorizo, grilled pork, avocado,
tomato and delicious queso Oaxaca. It was a filling meal that cost little and
tasted great, a hallmark of Mexican food, and I was happy to discover yet another
variety of cuisine from such a great culinary country.
After dinner we wandered over to Casa de Mezcal for our
first true taste of the local spirit. We ordered a couple relatively cheap
shots ($3) and posted up at the bar, doing the best to observe how the locals
appeared to be consuming. A shot and a beer, served with a side of orange and
limes wedges was the way to go.
This mezcal, good mezcal, was smooth with little burn to it,
and once the fire of mezcal has been quenched, it opens up to an array of earthy
and smokey flavors, far more complex than I would have ever imagined. I was now
a mezcal believer, Austin as well: converts standing at the altar, nodding
softly to the discovery that there was good mezcal to be had, and for only a
handful of pesos! It was later the next day, at the aforementioned road side
stand, would we be reminded again that not all mezcal is good mezcal.
Just outside of Oaxaca, a mere 15 minute drive up the nearby
peak is situated one of the most impressive ancient ruins in all of the Western
Hemisphere, the ancient Zapotec city of Monte Alban. Machu Pichu it is not, but
for the convenience of getting there from a nearby city with an airport it
served as quite the Mexican equivalent.
I had my doubts, knowing how little effort was required for
us to arrive at the site, of whether it would actually prove memorable in any
fashion. The views alone, a 360 panorama around the central valley of Oaxaca
was enough to make it worth it right there, but the ruins, some dating back
almost 2500 years were stunningly impressive in scale. “I get it, it’s old”
Austin quipped, the blasé world traveler who now proclaimed himself “ruined
out” after years of globetrotting to some of the world’s most famous relics and
structures. But even Austin, in a moment of lesser posture, admitted that it
was a site worth visiting.
Back in Oaxaca we spent our last evening enjoying an amazing
meal of Oaxacan cuisine at the rooftop patio of Café Oaxaca. The cuisine of the
region, well known in the culinary world, has its roots in indigenous
subsistence cooking, but with the complexity of dishes and flavors that have
developed here, the moles in particular, it has lent itself readily to fine
dining interpretations. Here by the fine candle light it was an almond mole with
beef tongue, amazing it every way, but still not so different than at the
working class market down the street where it had been mole coloradito, served
over chicken and a bed of rice, nothing more to accompany, or perhaps more
accurately, complicate the dish.
The idea of the mole, the slow simmering sauce that takes
hours to prepare, represented something more symbolic of Oaxaca than just food
alone: time. People here seemed to have a lot of it, and while the first blush
and quick quip of “lazy Mexicans” is an easy reaction, as I contemplated life
here in Mexico’s poorest state, some of the realities of life in Oaxaca began
make sense.
As Mexico continues its march towards modernization, led by
the megalopolis that is Mexico City and the northern states that fuel the trade
with the US, much of the rural, indigenous southern regions lag behind. Every
“comedor” with no dining patrons, or hawker who works relentlessly to sell you
a trinket for next to nothing, is an example of the subsistence economy here,
where it’s not about how much money you earn per hour, but rather just how much
money you earn; the hours never really end.
These were the hard parts of Oaxaca: the children working
the streets, at best by performing acts or selling trinkets, at worst by simply
pausing by your side with a longing glance for “una moneda”. It was a hard
thought to move past while watching the hoards of kids giggling at the clown in
front of the main cathedral, oblivious to the fact that the expectations of
them in life right now could be anything different than this right here. It was
a hard thought to know that the expectation for those with the trinkets
wouldn’t be anything different than what they were then.
My reason for optimism lay in the fact that overall as a country
Mexico continues to grow, and that with better times come better opportunities
and better futures. It might be some time before these possibilities reach
those children from the little villages outside of Oaxaca, a long time even,
but I think it will get there someday. You can feel the potential, especially
in Oaxaca, a poor but peaceful state that has so many hard working people, but
with so little real work to be done.
In the meantime Oaxaca will continue to grow and flourish as
a cultural and culinary capital, with economic gains hopefully only a little
ways down the road. The food, the art, the tapestry, the architecture: by the
end of our week there I began to understand how the expats I met simply stated
that they had come for some reason or another and then just never left.
